Goldwasser picked up a completed file waiting for his attention. It was labelled ‘Paralysed Girl Determined to Dance Again.’ Inside it were forty-seven newspaper cuttings about paralysed girls who were determined to dance again. He put it to one side. He had picked it up, looked at the heading, and put it to one side every day for a week, waiting for a day when he felt strong.

He picked up the next file instead, labelled ‘Child Told Dress Unsuitable by Teacher.’ Inside there were ninety-five cuttings about children who had been told their dress was unsuitable by their teacher, an analysis of the cuttings into their elements, and a report from the researcher who had prepared the file. The report read:

‘V. Satis. Basic plot entirely invariable. Variables confined to three. (1) Clothing objected to (high heels/petticoat/frilly knickers). (2) Whether child also smokes and/or uses lipstick. (3) Whether child alleged by parents to be humiliated by having offending clothing inspected before whole school.

‘Frequency of publication: once every nine days.’

Nobbs, Goldwasser’s Principal Research Assistant, shambled over and threw some more files on to Goldwasser’s desk. He wore a beard, to identify himself with the intelligentsia, affected a stooped, lounging gait to establish parity of esteem with the aristocracy, and called everyone except the Director and Deputy-Director ‘mate,’ to demonstrate solidarity with the proletariat. He had a powerful effect on Goldwasser, causing a helpless panic to seize him.

‘Here you are, mate,’ said Nobbs, ramming the word ‘mate’ into Goldwasser like a jack-knife. ‘I’m just doing the “They Think Britain Is Wonderful” file now. Seems all right. Variables are mainly who’s doing the thinking – American tourists, Danish au pair girls, etc.’

‘Are you going to cross-index it with “British Girls Are Best, Say Foreign Boys”?’ said Goldwasser. ‘I mean, to avoid using them both on the same day?’

‘It wouldn’t matter, would it, mate?’ said Nobbs. ‘We’re trying for an upbeat tone overall, aren’t we?’

‘I suppose so,’ muttered Goldwasser, unable to bring himself to argue with anyone as horrible as Nobbs. ‘But cross-index it with “Booming, Bustling Britain,” then. We can’t have them all in on the same day.’

‘Your word is law, O master,’ said Nobbs. ‘Mate.’

O God, prayed Goldwasser humanely, let Nobbs be painlessly destroyed.

‘Have you checked “Paralysed Girl Determined to Dance Again” yet?’ asked Nobbs.

‘Not yet,’ said Goldwasser.

‘Well, don’t blame me when we’re a week behind schedule at the end of the month,’ said Nobbs. ‘That’s all I ask, mate. And what about “I Plan to Give Away My Baby, Says Mother-to-be”? We can’t do anything more on that until we’ve got a policy decision from you.’

‘I’ll look at that now,’ said Goldwasser. Nobbs slouched away. Goldwasser lifted his eyes from the pencil jar, where they had taken refuge from the sight of Nobbs, and watched Nobbs shamble back to his office, knocking over chairs and sweeping files off the corners of desks as he went. He turned to the ‘I Plan to Give Away My Baby, Says Mother-to-be’ file.